


No Heart to Break

by NevillesGran



Series: ...and the Toy Soldier as Jessica Law [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims Flirting, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, and Julia & Trevor and Not!Sasha, and a cameo by Annabelle Cane!, brief appearances of Helen and Peter Lukas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22820296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran/pseuds/NevillesGran
Summary: The Toy Soldier meets someone familiar in the Unknowing (so far as anything could be familiar there), and when it survives, it goes to find him (so much as something that was never alive in the first place can "survive" anything.)
Series: ...and the Toy Soldier as Jessica Law [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640476
Comments: 156
Kudos: 594





	1. Hide and Seek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's say the first fic happened at the end of s3?

If anyone asked the Toy Soldier—and they didn’t, because it was just a toy soldier, after all, and it couldn’t even speak. But if they had, it would have admitted to not being so sure about this big Dance coming up.

Nikola said it would happen, and had very clear instructions for how the Toy Soldier would participate, so of course it would. But Nikola also said the Dance would make everybody like them, things pretending to be people, and the Toy Soldier was less sure of that. It was lovely and exciting, of course, to spend time with Nikola and her friends. But it thought it might also like proper people. It definitely used to spend time with some of them, though its memories were confused as to what sort. Either way, there had been music…

There was still music, in the Dance (of course, or how else could there be a dance?) But the Toy Soldier didn’t end up playing most of it; there was a calliope organ for that. It helped the singers find their pitches, at first, but then the music took over and everything was dancing.

 _Everything_ was dancing. The world was dancing, inside-out and sideways-twixt and other ways that couldn’t be measured. For a moment the Toy Soldier forgot how to be alive, but the rhythm kept it moving; for another, it forgot how _not_ to be, and she screamed as she spun from one partner to another. Then someone picked it upside-down and the Toy Soldier clicked its boots sharply as it landed because it had never been alive in the first place, remember?

Then its newest partner begged it, “Stop, _stop,_ ” words choked under crawling scars and bright eyes, and none of it was familiar yet all together it was. He wasn’t in any sort of respectable uniform but the Toy Soldier stopped. 

The bright-eyed human looked at it in horror, splitting at the seams that weren’t, then darted off with a shout for another partner.

The calliope still played and the dancers still danced, but the Toy Soldier had another song stuck in its mind. It couldn’t tell quite what, but it…wanted to. It sidewaysed sidle until it started to reach a car that was a lotus that was a door.

Before it could, the Dance exploded.

\+ = +

It took _weeks_ to get itself back together. First it had to pull together all the bits it could find just where they’d been scattered. Then it searched the rubble for anything more, anything that could be spare parts. It was difficult. Most of it was melted—most of the rubble, but most of the Toy Soldier as well. It didn’t have a Nastya to help tuck all the gears into place and it didn’t have a Frank to fix the bowtie and it didn’t have most of its limbs, at first, which made all the rest much harder.

Eventually, it was intact enough to shamble, and that meant it could get to a hardware store to find better parts, and _that_ meant it could make its way to London for the sort of specialty clockwork shop that could supply the last few essential fiddly bits. It mostly made these trips at night, when there weren’t people to deal with—it didn’t mind people (it turned out people still existed after all, though maybe that was because the Dance had exploded.) But it could speak with them anymore, which made everything more difficult, and it felt wound-down in a way it never had before. The Toy Soldier hadn’t even realized it needed to be wound. It was still pretty sure it didn’t. But wound-down it felt nonetheless.

It found an out-of-the-way warehouse to stand in for a while. Someone would find it eventually. Someone always did. Then perhaps they would scream, or try to pretend they had expected to find a toy soldier here, and things would happen again.

It stood in the dark and quiet for several days. Boredom wasn’t a thing that happened to the Toy Soldier.

Then it remembered that it had seen _someone_ familiar, at a time when nothing familiar should have been possible. That was odd. 

After a few more days, it decided to go look for that not-quite-stranger. Boredom didn’t happen to the Toy Soldier, but loneliness did. It had preferred to stop being alive than to go on without its friends, once, and just now, it didn’t feel like doing either of those things.

It didn’t have a plan—it never did. It was just a toy soldier, after all, and neither toys nor soldiers are known for making their own plans. But it had all the time in the world, now that there was no Dance to prepare for. So it walked out, just like old times, and kept walking until it found someone with something to do.

It was another several weeks of handing out flyers on street corners—something about the climate—and parking cars at an opera house—moderately good music—before it found a promising clue. Or, before it found something that seemed to be trying to stop it, which was almost the same thing.

Nothing in particular happened. But it knocked on a door and left a flyer in the mail slot, as its companions had bade, and when it turned around to go to the next building, all the people in the street had gone. In their place was fog, whispering and soft.

The Toy Soldier walked through the empty streets for a while. There were things, buildings and benches, but no bodies. Nobody.

It started to hum, absentmindedly as a thing that only perhaps had a mind in the first place. Or what would have been humming if Nikola hadn’t taken its breath and voice. It hummed a song of a man lying himself down at the foot of a tree, weary alongside his wife’s bones.

Sound and sight and warmth returned, and all the people. Path found, the Toy Soldier executed a neat about-face and returned to the large stone building it had first gotten lost outside. _The Magnus Institute_ , it said on the front, with an uncomfortable engraving of an owl.

This time, the door disappeared under its touch, as did the steps, and instead it stood upon a sandy shore draped in fog. The water was close enough to hear but too far too see, through the whispering fog. It was still soft, but heavy, now, in a way that weighed the Toy Soldier down and threatened to rust its mechanisms.

But it understood the game, now. It was a toy, after all. It set off walking once again, and as it went it hummed-that-wasn’t the song of a bride searching for her would-be-wife who had been stolen from the altar. It pulled out a lute and strummed a song of three lovers drinking before they went to save the world. It skipped a few steps to the memory of a song that was never a dance, about time together on a train.

None of them had happy endings, but that didn’t matter. They were still sung, or they could be, and that meant they had never ended at all. The fog and beach alike faded again, and the Toy Soldier found itself back at the Magnus Institute, as though it had gone in a circle.

It pushed its way inside and went in the direction of the screams and sounds of bloody violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We can have little a immortality via storytelling, as a treat.
> 
> ...yeah I have only the vaguest idea where this is going.
> 
> This chapter alludes to Mechanisms songs "Elysium Fields" (UDAD), "Cinders' Song" (OUATIS), "Blood and Whiskey" (HNIC), and "Ragnarok V" (TBI).


	2. 20 Questions

The first person the Toy Soldier met was...not a person, like the Toy Soldier itself but also not. It was a little bit like a human, a little bit like a dog, and a little bit like one of Gepetto’s Little Pigs, or maybe one of the early mistakes when he was refining them. It attacked the Toy Soldier on the stairs, and the Toy Soldier was mildly surprised to realize that it was _incredibly_ in the mood for violence. It really had been a while. The thing that wasn’t a dog or a human or a Little Pig squealed when the Toy Soldier took it apart.

The second person it met sang a similar song, entrails on the floor and blood that flowed like wine. Her name, it would learn later, was Melanie. She was a real person, though she moved almost like she wasn’t, knife flashing and throat singing. The lyrics were different and so was the tune, but it was the same old song, and the Toy Soldier fell in step easily. 

When the enemy broke and ran, they gave chase together. That was how it met its third new...friend, except the first thing hadn’t been a friend. But when the monster ran through the door and it closed behind him, and then it opened again and a woman leaned out, the Toy Soldier couldn’t tell if she was a person or not. Everything about her struck it as uncertain, except maybe the smile she gave it.

“You’re strange!” She giggled and it echoed through the tunnel. “I’m Helen.”

The Toy Soldier took her hand and bowed over it.

“Where did it go?” Melanie snarled beside it, trying to push past. “I had it. I’m going to kill it.” Her hands and knives and lips and limbs were splashed with blood.

Helen pushed her back with the hand the Toy Soldier might still have been holding. “I’ll keep him out of your hair. You should calm down, if you don’t want to lose track of who you are.”

“I’ll show you who I am,” Melanie growled, and would have lunged for Helen next had a second person not dashed up. Her name, the Toy Soldier would learn later, was Basira.

“Is the Flesh thing gone?” she asked, swinging a gun in measured arcs.

“It is no longer here,” Helen said serenely.

“Good. What’s that thing?” The gun settled on the Toy Soldier.

The Toy Soldier waved. Basira looked like Frank and snapped demands like Ashes, or at least Hades, and glared in a way that matched neither. Maybe a cousin?

“Don’t know,” said Melanie. “It came out of nowhere and helped me beat up that thing.” She had lowered her weapon, but the cant of her body and the gleam in her eye said the brutal hymn of gunpowder still played in her blood, or at least the savage psalm of knives. She wouldn’t mind attacking the Toy Soldier as well.

The Toy Soldier stepped back into a pugilist’s posture, fists raised just as the Marquess of Queensberry would require. It had, of course, been fighting the Flesh thing much more effectively, but it wanted to demonstrate both a willingness to fight and a playfulness about it. 

“Hm.” Basira backed up a couple steps, keeping the gun trained on the Toy Soldier. “Don’t move. Melanie, come back with me. We should make sure there aren’t any more of the smaller ones.”

Melanie followed her reluctantly, reassured mostly by the possibility of more violence. “Oh—is Martin okay?”

“He ran off to see if he could get help.” 

“Help?” Melanie scoffed. “What, is the Accounting department going to rally to our sides?”

“Lukas,” Basira said tersely.

Melanie scoffed again—and with that, they were around the corner, their voices muffled.

Helen leaned over the Toy Soldier’s shoulder. “Are you really just going to stand here?”

The Toy Soldier did not move, because it had been told not to.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a quick visit to my hallways?” Helen slithered around it exactly like a snake didn’t, alight with humor. “They’re very nice at this time of year, you know?” 

The Toy Soldier did not move.

Helen’s laugh kept it company in the tunnel long after she (probably) disappeared, her doorway closed (probably) behind her.

It was probably a couple days before Basira reappeared, with Melanie and her knives again. Basira had a pad of paper, a clipboard, and a gun. She kept the gun trained on the Toy Soldier as they approached, as she handed the paper and clipboard to Melanie (who, scowling, tucked the knife into a hip sheath) and as she pulled out a tape recorder, and set it on the ground between them. It clicked on by itself.

“So, what’s your deal?” Basira asked, two hands back on the gun. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“Tell us your story,” Melanie added sarcastically, with a glare at the tape recorder. 

The Toy Soldier would have grinned, if it had a face that moved. It pulled out a small zither and began plucking the opening chords for the opening song, opened its mouth—

And closed it again. It had forgotten that it no longer had a voice, or even breath.

Basira’s glare had hardened even further. “Melanie, did you see where it got that thing from?”

“Its pocket?” Melanie had her knife out again, the savage psalm echoing at the edges of her voice. The clipboard and papers were on the floor. 

“Check it,” Basira ordered.

The Toy Soldier stayed politely still while Melanie edged forward and felt the inside of its pockets, the lining of its jacket, the refurbished hatch in its chest.

“It’s clockwork,” she said, repelled and fascinated. She poked around the Toy Soldier’s internal workings, first with the knife and then with one finger. “It’s wooden on the outside and clockwork on the inside, and there are like three more random instruments in here.” She pulled out a harmonica, which the Toy Soldier knew it couldn’t play without breath, but it had been too shiny to resist when it saw the instrument in a store window. “What the _fuck_.”

But Basira just said, “Hmm.” and jerked her head. “Get back, Mel. I need to go look something up.”

“Is this thing in a statement you’ve read?” Melanie asked. She backed up reluctantly, knife in one hand and harmonica in the other.

“No,” said Basira. “But I have an idea of where to find it.” She cocked her gun a little more at the Toy Soldier. “And you’ll stay here, right?”

The Toy Soldier didn’t move.

“Right,” Basira said, satisfied. 

When she backed up, however, the Toy Soldier stepped forward in tandem. Its chest cavity still hung open, gears whirring softly as it moved. It hadn’t been told not to, after all. And it didn’t entirely want to be left alone again.

“Stop,” she snapped.

The Toy Soldier stopped.

“Could you close its chest?” Basira asked, and for the first time her voice betrayed something uncertain. “It’s way creepier now.”

“Is it?” Melanie was dubious. But she stepped forward again and closed the hatch on the Toy Soldier’s chest cavity, straightened its jacket and even tucked the harmonica back into its hand.

It would have smiled gratefully. Instead, it took her hand in its and raised it to its lips with a bow.

This earned it a knife through the hand, but it was starting to think that was just how Melanie said hello. It had had friends like that before. It missed them.

This time, it waited for them to disappear around the corner before it followed. It also took a moment, first, to look around for Helen’s door, but that, too, was gone. So it tucked the harmonica back into the carefully cleared harmonica spot and followed Melanie and Basira’s footsteps, careful to keep its own quiet. Eventually it came to a ladder and a trapdoor in the ceiling, above which steps and voices sounded, and there it stopped. It didn’t want to presume, and it was fairly certain they would be back soon.

They were. Only a few hours passed, by the Toy Soldier’s internal clockwork, before the trapdoor opened and Basira peeked through. The Toy Soldier had positioned itself just out of range of anyone doing that, because it had an excellent sense of humor. It was rewarded with a cut-off yelp when she turned around halfway down the ladder and saw it in the shadows. 

Basira dropped down and had a gun aimed before it had raised its hand to wave. It waved cheerily. 

“You oka– jesus.” Melanie poked her head fully through the trapdoor and saw Basira with her weapon and the Toy Soldier waving, from where it stood just barely lit in the light from above. She pulled her head back. When next it appeared, it followed her body down the ladder. 

“That’s fucking creepy,” she added when she reached the bottom and turned around. She had her knife out again; she flipped it in one hand. “Guess that’s the point. So you’re the Toy Soldier thing?”

The Toy Soldier gave her the most elegant bow it knew, fit for address to a queen, and came up beaming its usual beam.

Basira started to lower her gun, but she said hard-voiced “But the Toy Soldier isn’t real. It was a gimmick made up for Jon’s college band.”

“I still can’t believe _Jonathan Sims_ was in a weird folk rock murder space pirate band in college,” Melanie muttered. “With _your cousin_.”

“Jon and Frank’s college band,” Basira allowed, and the Toy Soldier took a moment to celebrate to itself on its deductive skills.

A tape recorder was recording on the floor between them again, though no one had brought it down. Basira continued, “It was played by Jessica Law, who disappeared from all social media about a year ago. Are you Jessica Law?”

The Toy Soldier shook its head.

“Did you kill Jessica Law?”

The Toy Soldier considered the nature of evolving personalities and states of being for a moment, the parable of Theseus’s Ship (including a song it had helped sing about it, once) and its own existence as a non-person. They wasn’t thoughts it was used to having, but this seemed to be a place that demanded some sort of exactitude.

Ultimately, it shook its head.

“Did you used to be Jessica Law?” Melanie asked quietly, resigned and grim and echoing with the savage psalm.

The Toy Soldier nodded, happy to be communicating more clearly at last.

“Fuck,” Basira whispered, with a deflation that wasn’t meant to be seen by anyone else. 

The Toy Soldier patted her sympathetically on the shoulder. It was hard to lose friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mechanisms song referenced in this chapter is "Tales to be Told", which is played at the start of every live show and for a moment in "Expert Testimony" (TBI.) There's no Mechs song that I know of about the Ship of Theseus, but you have to admit that it's plausible.


	3. Statues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to the Wikipedia article "List of traditional children's games" for helping me name this chapter and for physically hurling my mind and emotions back 15 years.

Melanie darted back up the ladder to fetch a pencil, a clipboard, and a form that said, “Statement of Paranormal Experience—Submission”. She ordered the Toy Soldier to fill it out with an air of routine. It didn’t have an address or age or career or phone number, but it wrote _Toy Soldier_ in its finest cursive in the space that called for a name, and its finest cursive was very fine indeed. Then it sat against a wall, took out a lute to help itself think, and began to compose the rest.

After a few minutes, Melanie leaned over its shoulder. “Are you—” She looked at Basira. “It’s writing a _song_.”

“I guess that’s how she thinks she’s supposed to tell stories,” Basira said with a considering frown. “Same as when we asked earlier—she– if it thinks it was a Mechanism for real, then I guess it’s still acting like it.”

The Toy Soldier wasn’t paying particular attention to their discussion. It was having enough difficulty composing, when it couldn’t sing the words aloud to see how they sounded. The lute helped, but it missed its angelic voice.

The women waited around for a few minutes, then Basira ordered the Toy Soldier to knock on the trapdoor when it was done, and they both went away. They did leave a lantern-light to write by, which was nice.

It took several days before the Toy Soldier was satisfied with its work. It continued to be difficult without a voice to practice with; it settled for using its old favorite tune, which still suited it just fine. Marching songs never went out of style.

It spent several hours knocking on the trapdoor before Melanie answered. Knife in hand and hair tousled, she looked like she’d just woken up. The Toy Soldier readied its lute, but she just read its words silently, frowning, then handed them to Basira, who did the same.

“We should take it see Jon,” Melanie said abruptly. “Maybe it’ll help. One of them.”

\+ = +

Jonny was more unmoving than the Toy Soldier had ever seen him. He just lay there, pale and drawn in the hospital bed, nothing moving but the eyes behind his lids. Not even the heart that should be ever-beating in his chest.

Or maybe it was “Jon”? That was what Basira and Melanie kept calling him. The figure on the bed matched the Toy Soldier’s memory of a man who went by “Jon Sims” more than the man called “Jonny D’Ville”, but really, he was much too pale and still for either. 

It pulled out its very favorite new instrument, a lovely fiddle from a rubbish bin not far away, and started playing the most apt song it could think of. It got to the part where Jonny was supposed to jump in and kicked the metal leg of the bed several times, to get the right cymbal sound…

But Beauty remained sleeping.

The Toy Soldier backed up a few bars and repeated the cue…and still nothing happened.

The Toy Soldier’s shoulders could not droop. Jon(ny?) was only hooked up to one machine, a tube that ran down into his left wrist. The room was otherwise bare. The Toy Soldier bent its fingers into a gun and mimed shooting the machine, tilting its head querulously at Basira and Melanie.

“What– no,” said Basira. “We’re not going to shoot the IV drip.”

The Toy Soldier was running out of options. Left with nothing but hope and story—which had, in fairness, always served it well—it kissed Jonny in the only way it knew he would appreciate.

Jonny’s nose broke with a satisfying _crunch_ under its fist, and a moment later, Melanie was upon it, snarling her song. The Toy Soldier didn’t want to hurt her—it was fairly sure she was mortal—but her blood ran with fury and her knives slashed and stabbed like a maelstrom of two, and it didn’t want to have to put itself together again, either. And it was a Toy _Soldier_ , and a soldier _fights_. The IV machine crashed to the floor, the bed turned into a barrier to vault for momentum, a barely-dodged knife added another bloody stain to Jonny’s sheets and another scoured painted wood, as Melanie collected a broken nose of her own (Marquess of Queensbury–allowed!)—

“Stop it!” Basira shouted. “Stop it, both of you!”

The Toy Soldier put down its fists and disengaged. Melanie tackled it and slammed its head into the floor, once and then again, and—

“Melanie!” Basira’s hands pulled her back at the shoulder. “Melanie, calm down.” Nobody else had come running at the noise—it didn’t seem to be a part of the hospital anyone else frequented.

“It’s—” Melanie wiped her bloody nose with one hand. “I mean, it attacked him—not that I _care_ —”

“I think it was trying to help,” Basira said firmly. “Like, smack him awake?”

“I could fucking smack him awake,” Melanie muttered. But she let herself be pulled to her feet, accepted a handkerchief for the blood and sheathed her knives in favor of resetting her nose.

The Toy Soldier sat up, carefully so as to not shed any more splinters than necessary. It fished a pencil and small pad of paper from one pocket, and crossed one leg over the other to use as a writing desk.

 _I beg pardon for causing alarm!_ it wrote, and handed the first sticky note to Basira. _A kiss may not be the most polite way to break a cursed sleep, but it is traditional._ Another note _. And Jonny would prefer a “kiss with a fist”!_

Melanie laughed outright when Basira handed her the note. But Basira crossed her arms.

“That’s Jonathan Sims,” she said. “Not Jonny D’Ville. Do you remember Jonathan—Jon—Sims?”

 _Indeed I do!_ the Toy Soldier wrote. Though it had a great deal fewer of those memories. _Thank you for the clarification._

Still, Basira frowned. A cousin she surely was, because both Ashes and especially Frank (also fewer memories) had smiled much more. 

Melanie had wandered back to the bed, and straightened the sheets a little guiltily. “I think he’s starting to heal already.” She picked up the IV tube from where it lay limply against the floor, and stabbed it with vengeance into his wrist. He didn’t wake any more than he had before. “That’s so fucked up.”

Basira sighed, and righted the machine itself. The liquid inside was mostly undisturbed; it resumed flowing.

“You, stay here,” she ordered the Toy Soldier. “You can get up, but don’t leave the room. If anyone tries to get in who isn’t one of us or a nurse—”

“Martin,” said Melanie.

“—or a tall man with curly hair who’s wearing a sweater, and says his name is Martin, don’t let them in, and call me. Do you know how to use a cell phone?”

The Toy Soldier took the small flip phone she offered, flipped it open to look at it, and nodded. 

“Good.” Basira looked happy to have orders to give. “Also call if Jon wakes up, though I guess you can just give him the phone. The only number on it is mine.”

The Toy Soldier saluted. It was nice to get orders, too.

It caught her by the arm before she left, and scribbled out a hasty, _Would you mind returning with some wood glue and paint? I’m afraid I’m a tad bashed up!_

“Sure.” Basira almost, _almost_ smiled. But then her gaze drifted to Jonny on the hospital bed again. “Just…watch him.”

Her tone was one of uncertainty: whether it wanted watching over with care or watching careful and guarded, or even just neutral observation. The Toy Soldier saluted once more: both toys and soldiers are good at all of the above.

It picked a corner in which to stand at ease and took out its zither to provide some mood music, and in case it might ease Beauty’s eye-darting dreams. Or even summon him to wake. Maybe it just hadn’t used the right song, before.

(Or maybe it was a matter of winning permission? Songs could do that, sometimes, if Death was in the right mood to play games. The Toy Soldier was very good at games.)

It chose a song about drifting lost and alone and not-quite-dead-yet, and began its watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs referenced in this chapter are "Sleeping Beauty" (OUATIS) and "Lost in the Cosmos (TtBTv2).


	4. Musical Chairs

There was a clock in the hospital room, so the Toy Soldier could check its own gears against another’s. It was a little janky, but then, the clock hadn’t put itself together and also made space for a zither and a harmonica and a fiddle and a lute. These things were important.

Basira returned the next day with some paint and a cheap woodcarving kit, which was lovely. She even included a range of paintbrushes, so the Toy Soldier could touch up the broad strokes of its dress shirt and the fine lines of its moustache. It was rightfully proud of its moustache.

On the third evening, a man arrived who matched the description of “Martin.” The Toy Soldier was at the door to greet him—or turn him away, if necessary, but it was “a tall man with curly hair who’s wearing a sweater”, and the Toy Soldier got out its notepad and pencil to ask if he’d say his name was Martin.

Probably-Martin was looking down at his phone, a much newer one than the Toy Soldier’s, but when he was nearly at the door he looked up, and yelped at the sight of the Toy Soldier.

The Toy Soldier tried to wave, but probably-Martin cut it off with a punch to its face. It was much less effective than Melanie’s hits, but he also shouted, “Get out! Get out, get out, leave him alone! Go away, leave him alone!”

The Toy Soldier obeyed, of course. It was somewhat difficult, as probably-Martin tried to shove his way into the room at the same time, so they had to maneuver around one another in the doorway. Probably-Martin slammed the door shut behind it, and hurried footsteps suggested that he then ran across the room to check on Jon. He muttered something that the Toy Soldier couldn’t hear, standing a few feet down the corridor as it was (”away” enough, it thought.) But then he came back to the door and, by the sound of it, slid to the floor against it, and started to break down in panicked sobs.

When the soft cries started to abate, the Toy Soldier walked back and knocked tentatively on the door. The door twitched as probably-Martin startled, and his panicked breaths sped up again.

The Toy Soldier wasn’t sure what to do. Its watch had been relieved, but it didn’t feel quite right to go away more thoroughly. 

This time, though, probably-Martin collected himself much more quickly. There was the sound of fumbling in pockets, a pause, and then he said, “Peter? Peter pick _up_.” His voice only cracked a little. “There’s a– I’m at the hospital with Jon and there was a _thing_ in his room, a Stranger puppet thing—it’s got to be Stranger, it’s life-size– I stopped it before it could do anything, I think, get vengeance or something, but.... This is what you promised to stop, this is _exactly_ what you promised to stop.” Panic submerged itself beneath steel. “So get over here and make it– vanish or something!”

He seemed calmer after that. On speakerphone, his phone dialed several more times, but his breathing evened out, albeit with the too-measured rhythm of someone trying very hard to keep it that way. 

The Toy Soldier slid a note under the door. _Would you care for some tea?_ It pressed an eye to the floor to watch probably-Martin pick the paper up, but nothing else happened, save that the man’s breath hitched and he dialed a new number, cancelled it after half a ring, and called the “Peter” and let it ring.

The Toy Soldier considered its options. It wasn’t sure exactly what a Peter would do, but it didn’t really mind. Both toys and soldiers can endure a great deal. More importantly, there didn’t seem to be anything for it to do, here...yet neither did leaving appeal.

Fortunately, toys in particular are good at staying where they’re put. 

Nearly two hours passed before a new man strolled down the corridor. He, too, was tall, and broad, and uniquely even paler than Jon. He paused when he saw the Toy Soldier, and mouthed, _oh, you again._

The Toy Soldier waved uncertainly. It didn’t remember meeting any such person—though, as he approached, it wasn’t sure that this was quite a person either. He was _too_ pale, broad but somehow thin innately; the hospital corridor had gone familiarly cold and heavy, and his eyes were flat like there wasn’t really anyone behind them.

The Toy Soldier wished it had a sword again. It had been so focused on instruments; it had forgotten to find a sword. Guns were very well, but it had used to have a beautiful dress sword, and a slightly less beautiful sword with a very sharp and effective blade.

“Go away,” the empty man ordered, and the Toy Soldier, of course, obeyed.

Where it went was...nowhere.

There wasn’t even a beach anymore; nothing so real and familiar as waves. There was something like ground, because it was standing on something, and there was something like air, because it was full of fog—and yet, empty. This was the fog’s final form, the Toy Soldier knew intuitively: fog so thick that it was no longer there at all, because to be that physical would be to have something to touch, and in this not-place there was...nothing.

No one.

No one ever again.

The Toy Soldier had started walking, marching, on reflex, but it slowed. There was nowhere to walk to. There was no one to march with. 

The absence of voices whispered. It had left its new friends behind, Melanie and Basira and the others, on order as it always did, because it was a toy soldier. The Dancers were all destroyed or gone, Nikola and Sarah and the rest, and the world they’d wanted hadn’t even been one for the Toy Soldier. 

It slowed to a crawl. The fog that wasn’t even there crept into cracks between cogwheels.

The Mechanisms were all dead, and that had killed the Toy Soldier the first time. The memories were blurred, more story than fact, but they stretched back millennia and without them... It didn’t feel boredom but it did feel loneliness, and it didn’t want to keep pretending without its friends. It couldn’t bear to try.

It ticked to a halt.

And the other Mechanisms...Ben and Kofi and the whole band...the memories were sharper, realer, and yet so few. Friends...family; parents and cousins....

The memories were sharper but so far away. She had left them all behind. She left and now there was no one, and it was her own fault. They all left because she left first, because...

...because...

...because she’d wanted to be something that could die of loneliness...

...because it chose to be alive in the first place.

Something ticked.

Several more things ticked as clockwork ground back into motion. The Toy Soldier fished out its fiddle and began to play.

But this time it didn’t play the romances of others, playing at love like a toy. It was a toy, of course, and a soldier, but this time it started to march on its own. 

It played songs of one-eyed jacks bleeding out and lucky sevens burning down. It played of lost princesses and starships that loved them; it played of hearts that beat even as the bodies around them froze. The music echoed through the fog that wasn’t there enough to touch, and it marched and it played paeans to the horror of angels and science. It played lullabies for dreamless sleep, the savage hymn of lunar demolition, and something about whiskey for neither a baron nor a doctor. 

It didn’t have a voice to sing, but it made up new songs nonetheless. It played songs of drifting through empty space, of passing beyond unknown horizons, of one really truly final bar fight and the slaughter of stars and the last and brightest light in the universe, and even sadder endings. But the secret was still, had always been: even the saddest endings aren’t endings at all, if the songs are still played.

The fog thickened and thinned again, and it stepped out into the Archives, familiar from walking through however many days ago. Someone turned around in surprise, possibly because it was still fiddling furiously, and the person was Jon.

Or possibly Jonny? There was something dark and dreadful in his eyes, and the Toy Soldier was starting to think that maybe Jonny D’Ville and the rest of the _proper_ Mechanisms hadn’t been entirely people either, for all that they were more people than the Toy Soldier.

Jon(ny?) didn’t flinch like he used to, either. He leaned forward, in the mood for _something_ that wasn’t gentle, and demanded, “Who are you? _”_

Even older gears ground into motion, so old that the Toy Soldier itself had entirely forgotten about them, in the excitement of having an angel’s voice. They had never been good for more than specific practiced motions, and they would need a great deal of oiling before they would be much use again. But they were part of its original story and so, rusty and rough and nonetheless chipper, it paused its tune and dutifully answered: 

“I am a Toy Soldier! Jolly good, eh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tragically, Jonny, Ashes, Tim, and Brian are the only Mechanisms with specific songs I could reference, though Nastya has one un-albumed that you can find the lyrics of on the website. But I think everyone got the sort of description they deserve. Deaths likewise (alas, I don't know them all.)
> 
> I realized a few paragraphs in that Martin has trauma very specific to being trapped in an enclosed space by a monster just outside the closed door, whoops. Sorry, Martin.


	5. Blind Man's Buff (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got about 2,500 words into this chapter before realizing I'd better just split it in half.

“ _…laughing circus filled with joy_  
_For singers, dancers, clowns and toys_  
_Yet, one soul known, a passing glance—_  
_Not all toys are made to dance_ ”

Jon(ny)’s falsetto wasn’t quite angelic; a little pitchy, even, but it did the job. The Toy Soldier strummed its lute along as he sang its statement.

“ _So now the march is on once more_  
_From ancient tales to newest lore_  
_Across the black and back again_  
_Alone for now, but not at end_ ”

All the sorrow and loss, all the memory and wistfulness, and all the joy and cheer and consummate _on-going_ seemed to flow directly into his voice, as he reached the final chorus.

“ _Marching ever at command_  
_No players left, yet here I stand_  
_A toy should ever be at play_  
_So here I am and here I’ll stay_ ”

The Toy Soldier played the final, drifting chords, and then Jon(ny) said, “Statement ends,” and that seemed to be it.

It could not move its face to watch in a particularly hopeful manner, but it watched him nonetheless.

Jon(ny) put his head down on his desk. “Fuck.”

The Toy Soldier kept watching, and waiting. It was very strange. Normally it would have been shot several times by now, for bothering Jonny for so long.

“So, was that you that it saw in the Unknowing?” Basira asked. She was in the office too, listening. Melanie had stomped off once the initial commotion died down.

“I think so,” said Jon(ny). Raising his head and adjusting his glasses, he added, “Yes. Yes, I– I remember seeing it there. I told it to stop.”

“And it just did?” Basira was skeptical.

“Yes, that’s how the Toy Soldier works.” He was annoyed, until it faded into exhaustion and loss again. “In the _stories_ —god, Jess. I’m so sorry.”

The Toy Soldier patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. Once again, he neither flinched nor shot it. It wasn’t sure what to make of this not-quite-Jonny/not-quite-Jon.

Jon(ny) dragged his hands down his face. “Well, of course you can stay—”

“What, seriously?” said Basira. “Jon, we don’t need—“

“What else do you expect us to do with it?” he snapped. “Release it into the wild to go scare people? Or be picked up by, I don’t know, any number of people who would order it out on a murder spree?”

Basira eyed the Toy Soldier with a little more consideration. “Would it really?”

“If it’s– if it’s really working on the same rules as the Mechanisms’ Toy Soldier? Yes.”

The Toy Soldier took out its notepad and wrote, _You know I’m game for any violence you’d like to engage in, Jonny old bean! Thank you for letting me stay in your lovely new home!_

“I’m not– Jon,” he said firmly. “Call me ‘Jon.’” His face twisted. “Or ‘Archivist’, I suppose.”

The Toy Soldier saluted sharply. It wasn’t the sort of asshole who called people by names they’d rather leave behind. (Though if he wanted to take Ivy’s title now, well…she could handle it herself if she decided to stop being dead.)

And so began the Toy Soldier’s glorious career as an Archival Assistant.

\+ = +

It started out organizing files by date of statement given, as had already been begun. The first storeroom was almost entirely done, but there were five more, and then they would all need to be combined into one great order. Jon had it start on the second one. Properly, he explained, the statements were supposed to be verified and recorded—though apparently he didn’t need to do any research to verify them anymore (the Toy Soldier tilted its head in polite curiosity, but he didn’t explain further.) But it was fine that the Toy Soldier couldn’t record, because they might as well get them in order first.

Several days later, Jon decided that Melanie really needed to stop singing her savage psalm, so the Toy Soldier was recruited together hold her down in case she woke in the middle of her surgery. Melanie was _impressively_ resistant. She even got an arm free to stab Jon with a scalpel, which the Toy Soldier felt rather bad about. It didn’t usually fail in its duties like that.

In all the bloody excitement, nobody remembered to order the Toy Soldier back to the filing room, so it spent a few days exploring the Archives. Mostly this meant the other filing rooms, but there were also desks and cots, and the tunnels below. It didn’t wander far—instead, when the mood struck, it played music. It even found a deck of cards and tempted Jon to play poker with it for a few hours, which seemed to lighten his mood.

It was looking through all the desks again for a mahjong set, late enough one night to be very early morning instead, when another of Nikola’s friends arrived. Well, half of another of Nikola’s friends. They did still have their coffin, though, on a new little orange trundle cart. 

They stopped when they saw it (”it” stopped? Now that there was only one?) They stopped in surprise and said, “Wot are you doin’ here?”

 _I am looking for mahjong tiles!_ the Toy Soldier wrote hastily on one of its notes. _Would you like to play?_

The deliveryman shook its head. “Fuckin’ weirdo. Well, you can wait with me.”

The Toy Soldier waved cheerfully, and returned to the desk it had been searching. It had used to belong to someone named “Sasha”, by the papers left in the drawers. Sasha had half a bag of Dove chocolates in her bottom drawer, which the Toy Soldier wistfully thought it might have enjoyed once, when it wasn’t made of clockwork.

“Oh, yeah.” The deliveryman tapped it on the shoulder, then jerked their thumb at Jon’s office. “Wait with me, quiet-like. And when the Archivist shows up, you grab him.”

The Toy Soldier saluted as it followed them into the dark office. It was a shame, the waiting quiet-like. The deliverymen had always been excellent conversation partners, when prompted to walk each other down memory lane. The Toy Soldier had accompanied them on various instruments. But the one alone was clearly at a loss in many senses of the word.

Basira ended up entering first. The Toy Soldier still waited for Jon, of course, and slipped around to grab him by the shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides. He startled, but didn’t try to break free—he didn’t need to, to ask his questions and stare, stare like the heat of a sun in passing. In fact, he didn’t seem to notice that he was restrained, until it was over and he was panting and demanding a pen and paper.

Three weeks later, the Toy Soldier waited obediently while Jon finished a recording. 

“…I’m not risking anyone else. And I know… I– I think, I can get her out.”

He stopped the recorder with a click and his voice still shook, just slightly, as he took out the tape and passed it to the Toy Soldier, but his hands didn’t. 

“Right then, you take that. If I’m not back by tomorrow, give it to Melanie. Keep an eye on the rib, too—don’t let anything happen to it.” 

He picked up the second tape recorder, still running, and looked around the office again and hesitated. “Look after Melanie, too, if– while I’m gone. Even if she yells at you. Keep your distance, maybe, but keep her safe.”

The Toy Soldier saluted with a click of its heels. It wouldn’t have done otherwise, of course, but in this moment, there was something familiar in Jon’s eyes. Grim and terrible promise, as always these days, but not so much Jonny D’Ville as Nastya Rasputina, when she took them all to Cyberia to see that it was dead.

Melanie was okay, but Basira yelled at the Toy Soldier a _lot_ when she got back. She didn’t stop until Jon returned as well, with a woman named Daisy.

There had never been a song for when Cinders saw Briar Rose, so the Toy Soldier started plucking out something close enough, until Basira ordered it to shut up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I needed to either include the entire statement song or just the last bit, and I went with the second option. But here are a couple deleted verses:  
>   
>  _But even legends have their day  
>  And one by one they went away  
> Into the darkness ‘twixt the stars  
> Where neither life nor music are_
> 
> [not necessarily directly next]  
>  _The ringmaster, she took the voice  
>  The soldier didn’t have a choice  
> But then again, few soldiers do  
> And fewer toys - so what of you?_


	6. Blind Man's Buff (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's my secret, cap: I have never known how long a piece of writing is going to be ever in my entire life.

For a while, everything was very jolly indeed. The Toy Soldier was returned to organizing files, alternating with playing whatever came to mind. Melanie found it _The Bifrost Incident_ on Bandcamp, which it had missed entirely, and it practiced every song until it could play them, too. Sometimes Jon sang along, if he wasn’t paying attention.

It befriended Daisy. She wasn’t entirely a person—her gaze was too sharp, her movements too twitching. But she wanted to be in a way the Toy Soldier never had, for all the pretending it did to be alive. Sometimes she sat with it, listened while it practiced and even ordered songs for it to play. Sometimes she just stayed in the room while it finished organizing File Storeroom 2 by date, and moved on to File Storeroom 3. She never did her exercises with it, only with Basira, but she helped it train its clockwork until it could tick out, “Listen to the quiet.” Sometimes, it repeated that over and over while it strummed a lullaby, and Daisy fell asleep.

Melanie taught it to say “Jonathan Sims eats farts.” Jon made an excellent face when he first heard it, and every time thereafter.

Daisy went out one day and came back with a guitar, because she said the lute was “stupid and kinda twangy.” A week later was one of the days when Melanie barked short laughs and glowered rather than stayed silent and glowered, and she went out and returned with a glockenspiel. Daisy narrowed her eyes in a way that wasn’t quite focusing on a target and said, “This means war,” and in short order the Toy Soldier had been gifted with an autoharp, a waterphone, a grogger, and a full one-man-band ensemble.

Jon confiscated the grogger almost immediately and Basira ordered it to stop playing the one-man-band and take it off. But just a couple days after that, she came into File Storeroom 3 and said, “We’re going to the North Pole, me and Jon and you. What sort of weapons can you use?”

_As a soldier, I expect I can use any weapon I have! I do believe I have the most experience with guns and swords, though. Why back in my first engagement with the Rebels—_

“Stop writing,” said Basira, and might have sighed were she not commanding. “That’s about the sort of crazy logic I’d expect. I’ll get something—be ready to leave at 10am the day after tomorrow. We’re taking a ship.”

_Jolly good!_ the Toy Soldier wrote. _A sea voyage will do us all some good. Fresh air is important, did you know? Why, we could take everyone! Daisy in particular has been looking a bit peaky..._

She walked away before it could finish. As she’d previously ordered it very firmly to _not_ follow her when she did that, the Toy Soldier stayed put.

But the next day she gave it a quite nice sword and sheath, dusty like they’d been in someone’s garage for several years and worn in a way that suggested hard use…but hard use that had neither broken nor dulled the blade. The Toy Soldier set to polishing both sword and sheath immediately. Basira also gave it a gun, which is tucked into a pocket.

The whole trip was, indeed, a jolly good time. The sea voyage was interesting, though the Toy Soldier was confined to the cabin for most of the trip lest it “scare the sailors”, and Jon and Basira had some sort of tiff halfway through. But there was a bit of a firefight when at last they got to Ny-Ålesund, and Jon destroyed a small ball of pure darkness by staring at it. And then Helen gave them a quick trip back! It was always nice to see another friend.

Not long after they got back, an even older friend came to visit, from before the Toy Soldier was either a toy or a soldier. But at first, all she and Jon did was stutter at one another.

“Oh—G– Georgie! Wh– What, ah– you—”

“Oh! Uh, sorry; I thought um—is Melanie about?”

“…Melanie? Uh—Yeah, I saw her a couple of hours ago—uh, in the other office, I can, I can show you?

“Oh, I’m sure I can…”

She trailed off. She had seen the Toy Soldier, standing in a corner. When they got back from Ny-Ålesund, Jon had ordered it to stay with him and keep him from asking anyone for their story, so here it was.

Jon looked back at it, and then didn’t meet her eyes again.

“Melanie wasn’t exaggerating,” she said. “This is really…”

“Yeah,” Jon said softly. “I asked it—her—who she is, and it said ‘the Toy Soldier.’”

“I am a Toy Soldier,” it confirmed with its usual smile. “What, what!”

For a moment Jon looked up hungrily, darkly eager for Georgie’s reaction. He forced his gaze away again.

Georgie wasn’t scared, but she was a little bit sad. Mostly she was _displeased_. 

All she said was, “Well, I suppose that settles it, huh.”

“...Yes,” said Jon.

The Toy Soldier would have sighed, if it had breath. The conversation didn’t really pick up from there.

\+ = +

The Toy Soldier wasn’t oblivious. It was clear that there was a great deal of tension between everyone in the Archives these days. It turned out that the tiff on the boat was not so much a tiff as an affray, now verging on melee combat. After a quick trip to a probably-haunted house, the Toy Soldier was assigned a much more detailed task: watch Jon at all times and prevent him from asking anyone questions or for their story, or generally from going out without informing Basira first. If Jon did any of these things, it was to tell Basira as soon as possible without leaving Jon alone. Basira confirmed its orders every morning, and demanded reports that Jon hasn’t done anything contrariwise.

So amidst its duties, the Toy Soldier did its best to raise spirits. It offered card games to Jon or anyone who came to speak with him. It tugged its charge into the kitchen to make tea. It played music, and sometimes Jon even hummed along. Mostly just to the slower, sadder songs, but he hummed nonetheless.

One day, when he’d listened to one of the tapes from Martin four times in a row without stopping, the Toy Soldier tapped him on the shoulder and beckoned for him to follow.

“Where—”

The Toy Soldier put a hand over his mouth with a warning shake of its head. No questions!

Jon’s shoulder drooped. “Right. I would like…” He shook his head. “Just lead on.”

Once again, the Toy Soldier was a little surprised he hadn’t shot it. It wouldn’t _mind_ if he did. That was definitely how Jonny said hello, or at least, how he used to.

With that in mind, it led Jon down to the corner of the tunnels where Daisy and Basira kept several spare guns. It had found the stash several months ago while looking for more cards.

It let go of Jon’s hand, picked out the nicest pistol and presented it with a flourish.

“What– what?”

“What, what!” it repeated cheerfully, and put the gun in his hand.

When he didn’t do anything, it wrapped his hand around the grip itself, turned off the safety, and mimed shooting at the wall, at itself, at Jon. Then it let go and stood back encouragingly.

“Oh– no. No.” Jon looked like wanted to drop the gun on the ground, but instead he set it gingerly back with the others. “I don’t want these.”

He all but staggered back against the opposite wall, sat heavily and looked up at the Toy Soldier, and said, “Do you—” He cut himself off, head on his knees, even before the Toy Soldier put up a hand. 

It sat beside him, legs out into the passageway, and put a tentative hand on his shoulder. It had never been very good at preforming emotional comfort.

Eventually Jon looked up. “I’m going to say things,” he said, hungry and terrible but mostly just stubborn, “and you, agree or disagree based on what you think is true, or write out further explanation if it’s more complex than yes or no.”

_Agreed!_ wrote the Toy Soldier. _This sounds like a delightful way to pass the time._

Jon closed his eyes. It did very little to diminish the sense that he was looking at the Toy Soldier. He opened them again and said, “You still think that I’m Jonny D’Ville.”

The Toy Soldier nodded.

“Jonny D’Ville the immortal homicidal space pirate,” Jon clarified quickly, “not just a persona for a band. Actually spent millennia traveling around in the spaceship _Aurora_.”

The Toy Soldier gave half a nod, then rethought and shook its head.

“Explain.” A tape recorder ran nearby.

_You **could** be_, the Toy Soldier wrote. _I must say, I don’t quite understand why you don’t—it’s not my business, I suppose! But you’d be much happier, I’m sure._

“Like you– like you just decided to be the Toy Soldier.”

_I was always the Toy Soldier_.

"You _weren’t_ ,” Jon said harshly. “You were a woman named Jessica Law—you were a theater major, you loved zombie movies, you could only keep succulents alive—”

The Toy Soldier handed him another note, which read, _I was Jessica Law, ~~but~~ and I was always the Toy Soldier._

It was difficult to think like this, with exactitude and differentiation. But Jon’s stare seemed to demand it, darker and more consuming each moment.

Jon laughed, kind of. “You aren’t though. You’re a person pretending to be a thing pretending to be a person...or you’re a thing pretending to be a person pretending to be a thing pretending to be a person...why? I _sang_ your statement, but I still need to know—”

The Toy Soldier tried to put its hands over his mouth, but he smacked them away. He’d ended up kneeling, somehow; he grabbed its wrists and pinned them down and snarled, “No. Forget what Basira said—answer my questions, _Soldier._ Why? Why did you do it?”

The Toy Soldier struggled to obey. It didn’t have breath to speak, none of the phrases it could produce were quite right, and Jon was holding down its hands. Every moment that it didn’t reply, it felt like it was falling to pieces in the force of Jon’s stare, paint peeling bare and gears pulling apart.

Jon seemed to realize this. He let go. His stare didn’t abate but his voice cracked as he asked, “And is it really better?”

The Toy Soldier was a toy, so it nodded furiously, answering as ordered. And it was a soldier, so it did not tolerate being peeled apart for no reason; it wound back and punched Jon in the face so hard that he fell on his back and skidded several feet.

The pressure snapped like a neck. The Toy Soldier stood and walked over to him, then knelt and helped him sit up again.

“I deserved that,” Jon said thickly. He fingered his nose. It was broken again. A few drops of blood flew as he shook his head and said, “I’m sorry...I’m sorry. Feel free to tell Basira, about...all of this.”

\+ = +

Three days later, there was an enemy incursion. Jon was making notes at the end of a statement, but he stopped halfway through, staring into space as though it was showing him things. Then he looked to the Toy Soldier, waiting quietly in the corner. 

“The people coming—don’t attack them unless they attack you first.” He reached for the phone and dialed without looking. “And _don’t_ let them chase you—”

Someone kicked open the door and two beings came in, humanoid but prowling, sharp-eyed, sharp-grinned. 

“Hello, lad,” said the older one, with grey hair and jagged yellow teeth.

“Miss us?” asked the younger, with reflective eyes and a knife with an edge that glinted.

The younger one went for Jon; she pulled his arms behind his back and put the knife to his throat. The older pushed the Toy Soldier against the wall, teeth bared, claws digging into the wood of its shoulders in warning.

“Ah-ah,” the younger crooned, as Jon tried to move. “Sit back. Or we’ll see if you’re still human enough to bleed.”

“Don’t know that we need to check,” growled the older. “Looks like he’s harboring monsters right here.”

The younger glanced over. “Why, that looks a lot like the thing we _saved_ you from!”

“Only, even _less_ human,” said the older.

“Fancy that. So either you’re a hypocrite now—”

“—or you were a liar back then—”

“—as _well_ as a thief.”

“Thought we wouldn’t notice, did you?”

“Thought we wouldn’t notice what you took?”

“ _Who_ you took?”

“Right from under our noses.”

“In our own house.”

She pressed the knife against his throat. “I call that rude, don’t you?”

“Gerry wasn’t yours.” Jon sat up straight and glared back. “You had no right—”

It was _delightful_ banter. It went on for several more minutes. The Toy Soldier was very impressed, especially when Daisy entered with a gun and it became two-on-two without anyone missing a beat.

“...Come on, Julia,” the older said finally.

“What?!” said the younger.

“There’s no rush.” He chuckled, and let the Toy Soldier go. “We’ve got all the time in the world. Besides, this place is just full of monsters. She can’t guard ‘em all.”

“Tally-ho, old chap!” the Toy Soldier said encouragingly. What a gent!

“Well, maybe one to leave a message,” he allowed—and his own knife leapt from his belt to bury in the Toy Soldier’s throat.

But that was an _attack_ , so the Toy Soldier’s hard-worn sword leapt to its hand, slicing across the hunting-monster’s chest as it rose. It smiled, as usual.

He sprang back. The younger flung herself away from Jon, at the Toy Soldier, with a snarl; Daisy dropped her gun and simply lunged for her, claws first and growling a crescendo; Jon yelped and ducked around his desk. 

It was all blood and teeth and claws and blades, then. Until, at an unseen signal, the invaders turned and ran, nearly but not quite on all fours. Daisy gave chase with a howl, just as humanoid. Peer-pressured, the Toy Soldier ran after her.

“Stop!”

The Toy Soldier stopped mid-stride at Jon’s shout.

He waved it on from the doorway, wild-eyed. “Daisy. Stop Daisy. Hold her back.”

The Toy Soldier finished its step, and kept running. It wasn’t easy—Daisy and the others were _fast_. But they also had to do thing like decide where to go or be the ones to open any doors that were in the way, or breathe. All the Toy Soldier had to do was stop Daisy, which it managed with a tackle just a few steps outside the Institute’s front door.

They tumbled down the remaining stairs in a jumble of limbs, none quite human. She fought like a wild animal to rise and resume the chase. Fortunately, the Toy Soldier had words for just this situation—they had practiced together and everything.

“Listen to the quiet!” it said cheerfully as it held her back. “Listen to the quiet!”

Daisy’s struggles slowed, but not by much.

“Daisy!” Jon caught up with them, panting. “Look at what you’re doing!”

She froze with a whine, and collapsed in the Toy Soldier’s arms. She was much smaller, suddenly, skinny and shivering.

"Oh, god,” said Jon, aghast. “Are you okay?” He frowned. “He was right—you’ve gotten so thin…”

“I– I’m fine.” She struggled to sit up, and this time, the Toy Soldier helped her, supporting her back with one hand. She spat some blood onto the sidewalk. “Thanks.”

\+ = +

Melanie left. She didn’t seem like she meant to come back—though of course, they never did. On her last day, she gave the Toy Soldier an accordion, and ordered it to use it to annoy Jon whenever he was being particularly pissy. It was a very kind thought.

\+ = +

It wasn’t surprised when the hunters returned. Nobody was, but the Toy Soldier least of all—surprise required an expectation for the future that the Toy Soldier rarely bothered with. It had to admit, however, that the stretched-out monster with a voice like a record scratch was entirely new.

“Martin,” Jon said as though it was a wound. “Something’s happening down there.”

“With Peter and Elias…” Basira swore. “They’ll chase us. You go. We’ll keep them busy.”

“What? No! I—”

“Don’t argue.” Both her hands were on her gun; she hipchecked him toward the trapdoor. “Just go.”

“Jooooon!” the stretched-out monster sang. It did not have a particularly lovely voice.

Jon cursed under his breath. But his gaze was once more dark and terrible and familiarly bloody-minded in several senses of the word. The Toy Soldier thought about lending him its harmonica for old time’s sake—but it still wasn’t a Jonny D’Ville glare. There was too much caring in it. Technically, it had been a couple weeks late to see the first one, but the Toy Soldier recognized a glare one more death away from destroying the moon in the sky.

“Fine,” Jon spat. “Just don’t die.”

He was barely through the door when Daisy said, “Basira, promise me something.”

“What—” Her eyes widened. “No. Daisy, no.”

Daisy’s eyes were turning yellow, her nails growing into claws on the grip of her gun. “Basira, when this is over, you need to find me. And kill me. Promise me.”

“No. No, Daisy, we’ll figure something out—”

“You can’t hide forever, Jon…” the monster echoed.

“These last few months…” Daisy shook her head as her canines lengthened. “It was always borrowed time. Can’t outrun it forever.”

“ _Daisy_ …” Basira had never looked less like Ashes. She begged like Orpheus, Ulysses, Heracles on their knees.

“Promise me,” Daisy said, and she was Loki on the altar.

“I promise,” said Basira.

“Thanks. Now run.” Daisy turned to the Toy Soldier, and her spine curved but her words snapped with the command of a captain at attention. “You’re with me. Clear out any civilians you can find alive, _keeping_ them alive, then help me kill whatever else in the building isn’t human.”

The Toy Soldier saluted and drew its sword.

“Daisy—” Basira protested one last time. 

“ _Run_ ,” Daisy growled.

She ran.

Then the hunters found them, with their guns and sharp smiles, and the Toy Soldier was joined in battle once more.


	7. (Interlude)

_“Where are your friends, Archivist?”_

_“Tim and Sasha are dead.”_

_There wasn’t any wind in the Lonely, barely anything material enough to be the sand underfoot. But it still felt like Jon was pushing against something just to keep trudging along._

_“Yes.” The word echoed._

_“Daisy and Basira are probably dead.”_

_“Because. Of. You.”_

_There was fog, of course. It pressed against him like a cool bed sheet, inviting him to lay down and rest. He was so tired._

_“Georgie and Melanie have left me. The only other person...”_

_He choked back something that wasn’t quite a laugh._

_“The only other person I still talk to from any earlier than this job isn’t even a person anymore. I’ve been pretending for months to still be friends with a clockwork corpse.”_

_“And?” Peter Lukas’s voice whispered from afar._

_“And Martin’s gone,” he said softly. His weary trudge slowed against the wind that wasn’t there._

_“You’re alone, Archivist. The last one standing.” The voice was condescending, but sympathetic. “I did warn you. I did want you to leave, but… perhaps it would be better if you stayed a while. After all. You can’t hurt anyone in here.”_

_Jon has hurt so many people. He dreamed about them every night. He hurt them **by** dreaming about them, and that was just the ones he’d selfishly attacked, rather than let down utterly._

_“Yes...”_

_He turned abruptly to see a figure in the fog, because he had been trudging wearily but not without direction. “Or perhaps you could answer some questions.”_

_“...What?” The fog thickened, still echoing, as Lukas tried to fade away._

_But it was too late. Jon stalked forward, tape recorder ready._

_“I wouldn’t try to leave if I were you. I can see you now. I can find you wherever you go.” The shadow of a tragic story just within reach, the intoxicating taste of fear...the opportunity to tear it all out with bloody vengeance..._

_“Fine! It was just a thought.” Lukas solidified before him with a pout. “So leave.”_

_Maybe the Toy Soldier had been right about him after all. Jon bared his teeth and his tape recorder._

_“Not before I get some answers.”_


	8. Red Rover, Red Rover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say THANK YOU to everyone leaving these fantastic comments, from exclamations and emoticons to long analyses of personhood vs. toyhood. You've all been absolutely wonderful.

Scotland had a lovely countryside. It was a bit grey, in October, and certainly damp, and cold enough to snow any day now. But the Toy Soldier wasn’t bothered by cold, and quite waterproof to boot, and it provided its own color. Its jacket had been quite badly scratched up in the fight at the Institute, but it had found a new one in a store with somewhat mediocre locks. It was a little less military, but very posh; the red lining was nearly satin.

There weren’t a lot of street signs where it marched, much less towns. The landscape was taken up mostly by dying trees and stubbornly green fields and large cows with shaggy coats. But the Toy Soldier had a map and clear orders, which it could not but follow to the letter.

The sky was drizzling when at last it reached its destination. Fortunately, the package it bore was waterproofed as well, in multiple layers of plastic grocery bag. It heard a familiar voice as it approached the door—a quaint wooden style with peeling green paint, perfect for the slope-roofed, gently weathered cottage tucked far up a forgotten country lane. 

“…said they’d be here any day, because ‘it’d probably take about a week to walk’—and then she said she had to go, so I barely got the chance to ask what on _earth_ that—”

Martin broke off when the Toy Soldier knocked. (It was quite sure that the voice was, indeed, Martin. Basira had said that was who would be found here with Jon.)

There were some murmurs it couldn’t hear, then the sound of footsteps trying very hard to be quiet as they approached the door. A pause, such as that of someone looking through the little bronze peephole, then a horrified gasp and steps stumbling back with cries of, “Jon, Jon! We have to go—it’s this Stranger _thing_ , it was at the hospital—”

“What? Oh.” Jon’s voice had alarm followed by calm, and measured footsteps toward the door. “Don’t worry, Martin, it’s just—”

(“—Peter said he got rid of it but it must’ve escaped somehow, maybe when you—” Martin was saying frantically.)

Jon undid several locks and opened the door, and his terrible attention fixed immediately on the bag in the Toy Soldier’s hand. “You brought statements. Excellent.”

“…what,” Martin said flatly. He hovered at Jon’s elbow, eying the Toy Soldier like he expected it to attack.

“Oh—” Jon turned in the doorway to gesture at between them. “Martin, this is…well, this is the Toy Soldier. Toy Soldier, this is Martin—come in, by the way. Ah…wipe your feet, I guess.”

The Toy Soldier obeyed. Its feet had gotten a little muddy on the road.

The inside was exactly as the outside would suggest: a little run-down, but just as cozy. A scratched coffee table hosted two mugs that looked homemade, in front of a sofa with more blankets than cushions. There was a plant in one corner and a kitchen through a doorway. Warmth washed out from a flickering fireplace. 

Martin still hovered half a step behind Jon. It was possible that he intended to attack the Toy Soldier preemptively. “So, you know…it?”

“Er…” Jon scratched some of the circular scars on his neck. “Yes. It’s a long story…I was in a band in college, see…”

Martin blushed so hard that he took a step back. “Oh! I, um, I know.”

“You do?”

“I, uh…” Martin took a deep breath and spoke in a rush. “I Facebook-stalked you back in, like 2014, before we even joined the Archives, and I didn’t really start listening to The Mechanisms then but I did after the worms, when I was staying in the Archives, because…because. But only after you left for the day, or before you got there, because you never talked about it so I figured… My favorite album is Once Upon A Time (In Space) but my favorite song is ‘Elysium Fields’; it’s just really soothing even though it makes me cry half the time.”

“…Oh,” Jon managed, after several seconds of staring at him. 

He collected himself with a shake of his head, wiping the gobstruck expression in favor of something more customarily curious. “I’m surprised you don’t recognize the Toy Soldier, then.”

“I was busy crushing madly on Jonny D’Ville,” said Martin, with the steady voice and bright flush of a man unused to boldness.

Jon blushed nearly as brightly, beneath darker skin.

The Toy Soldier was entirely in favor of romance, but it did have a duty yet unfulfilled. It pushed the bag-wrapped bundle into Jon’s hands.

“Statements!” His attention shifted immediately, with a smile like a cat receiving cream. “Clever of Basira, probably, keeping them out of the official post—and getting the Toy Soldier out of London.” His sharp glance skewered it, though kindly meant. “I assume your journey was uneventful? Basira had you stay mostly out of sight?”

The Toy Soldier took out its pen and sticky notes—new ones, since it had left the Magnus Institute. _Correct!_ it handed over. _It was a lovely and scenic walk, along all these back roads._

It had only met one person—very interesting, actually; she had come right up to it in the middle of the first night out, just north of London. Her eyes had been a glittery black and she’d had cobwebs sewn into her forehead.

“Let me look through those,” she’d ordered, pointing to its package: a dozen odd statement folders and tapes, which Basira had wrapped carefully in grocery bags before putting into another grocery bag.

The Toy Soldier had handed them over, of course, and waited patiently while she perused them.

“Good man,” she’d said finally, addressing the statements. Her smile had nearly but not quite included mandibles. She’d wrapped the statements back up and tilted her head consideringly at the Toy Soldier for a long moment.

“…You’re almost not worth the effort,” she’d said finally. “It is, I will concede, incredibly Strange.” She’d handed the bagged statements back to the Toy Soldier and ordered. “Resume carrying out your previous orders. Do not tell anyone about this meeting, particularly not Jon. And make sure he’s not interrupted as he reads.”

The Toy Soldier had saluted, and resumed its courier mission.

 _Recently, there were many impressively large cows_ , it added, by note to Jon in Scotland. _Very jolly-looking fellows, and shaggy as a carpet!_

Jon snorted and passed the note to Martin, who cracked a smile.

“Well, thank you,” said Jon, already losing focus as he started to unbundle the statements. “Obviously you can stay here—in fact, that’s an order; don’t leave the house without one of us…huh, tapes. Why would she send tapes, too?”

“Maybe it’s for a varied diet?” Martin suggested. He adopted a mock-authoritative posture. “Eat your greens, young man.”

“Ha!” Jon looked genuinely entertained. It was perhaps the most natural smile the Toy Soldier had seen on him since it joined the Archives.

“Jolly good!” it chimed in.

Martin flinched, like in the light of Jon’s smile, he had forgotten it was there.

The Toy Soldier hastily scribbled a note for him. _Do not be concerned! I am here to help!_

Martin did not look less concerned. But he did look to Jon, who had selected a statement folder and sunk down on the blanket-covered couch with it. A tape recorder had been on the table since the Toy Soldier arrived, whirring quietly as it recorded.

‘All right, if you’re sure,” Martin said, with a slight smile like he couldn’t quite contain it. “I’ll leave you to your lunch, then—as _fun_ as listening to you monologue is…”

Jon’s smile was wry and self-conscious. “It’s a bit spooky. Go on, I’ll be done soon.”

“I’ll just go for a walk.” Martin picked up a coat, then side-eyed the Toy Soldier once more. “Is– is the Toy Soldier…”

“It’s fine, Martin, really.” Jon spoke gently. “It won’t hurt me.”

The Toy Soldier saluted its agreement. It had no intentions of violence in the least!

Martin shook his head reluctantly, but left. 

Jon had already positioned everything to his satisfaction; the door barely clicked shut before he began to read.

“Statement of Hazel Rutter regarding a fire in her childhood home. Original statement given August 9th, 1992. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, The Archivist. Statement begins…”

The Toy Soldier settled to an At Ease posture. It had listened to Jon read many such statements, and knew it wouldn’t be called on again for at least ten minutes. It didn’t mind, of course—it wasn’t a thing that minded much, and it could wander off if it liked, explore the grungy but warm little house. But they were all engaging stories.

“Hello, Jon.”

Jon’s entire posture changed. He shoulders straightened; he leaned forward in a way that conveyed uncomfortable intimacy. He looked absolutely terrified.

“Apologies for the deception,” he purred, “but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself. I’m assuming you’re alone, except perhaps that soldier toy—but of course, you’ve ordered it several times not to interrupt your statement-reading.” 

The Toy Soldier would have grinned. What a delight, to be included! The statement was right, of course—Jon had been very clear, several times, about the importance of not interrupting his recordings. Including, alas, on the subject of musical accompaniment. And there were the cobwebbed woman’s orders to consider as well.

Jon’s hands shook around the paper and his voice was strained, but he didn’t stop. “I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading yourself; there’s every likelihood you’ll only get hurt. So just listen. Now, shall we turn the page and try again?”

He turned the page. He looked up at the soldier as he did, dark eyes pleading, mouth shaping a desperate, _help me_.

It certainly wasn’t the most authoritative order the Toy Soldier had received, but it seemed earnestly meant. The answer, perhaps, was to amend the letter but not the spirit of previous commands.

It produced its trusty old lute and began to play, loud enough to record but too softly to interrupt.

Jon’s gaze drew back to the paper as though on a hook. He started again: 

“Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist. 

“Statement begins…”

Static crackled from the tape recorder as he read, until it filled the air around them. Thunder began to add erratic percussion. At a certain point, the statement’s narrative destination became clear, and the Toy Soldier took out its waterphone as well, for proper spooky accompaniment to the invocation of eldritch gods. 

Like old times that had never quite happened, Jon read, and the Toy Soldier played in the end of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so our tale concludes! Unless inspiration strikes in season 5...


End file.
